


Smoke, Steel, Fire

by yoshizora



Category: Xenoblade Chronicles 2
Genre: AU, F/F, rated for one smut scene lol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-12
Updated: 2018-08-12
Packaged: 2019-06-26 02:23:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15653814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yoshizora/pseuds/yoshizora
Summary: A knight finds a woman washed ashore with no recollection of her memories.And so comes the question of who one is if they are no longer who they once were, and the struggles of reconciling duty with desire.





	Smoke, Steel, Fire

**Author's Note:**

> i could claim i'm not copying zeke/tatiana (fe zeke not xenoblade zeke) but they totally were the inspiration for the premise whoops
> 
> edit: retitled

She happens upon a woman along a lonely stretch of the shoreline, sprawled on her back in the wet sand.

Mòrag tugs her horse to a halt and dismounts. The beach gives too easily beneath the weight of her armor, and she quietly curses the grains that have already managed to find passage into her boots as she jogs over. But then her attention is torn away from the sand and is once more focused on this person— this woman, as she stands above her, blocking out the sun.

She crouches. Pulls off one gauntlet, feels the woman’s wrist. Her skin is cold but the pulse is there, unmistakeable.

“A victim of a shipwreck…?” Mòrag murmurs to herself. Her horse tosses its mane and huffs, no help at all. She looks out across the horizon of that flat plane of endless blue, extending far away from the boundary of sea foam that gently laps against the shores. The waters are calm today. Not even a single cloud drifts anywhere.

The woman’s clothes are not Ardainian, she realizes upon closer inspection. She’s wearing a dress unlike any country’s fashion Mòrag is familiar with, though it’s been soaked with saltwater and clings to her body. Upon her head is a delicate circlet of silver and crystal, also unfamiliar. But she’s neither Gormotti, nor Urayan, so perhaps Leftherian? But Leftheria is weeks away by ship passage, and there had been no word of any ships on course to the Empire from there.

Carefully, Mòrag wipes the sand from her face and straightens out her circlet. The way the light reflects off it is mesmerizing.

The woman stirs. Mòrag yanks her hand back.

“Are you… quite alright?” Mòrag asks.

She only receives a soft groan in response. The woman hasn’t opened her eyes, nor is she actually moving.

There’s no questioning what must be done, then. Mòrag mutters an apology in advance as she pushes her hands beneath the woman to pick her up off the sand, marvels at how little she seems to weigh, and prepares to hoist her up onto her horse.

With the way things currently are in the country, there’s always some problem here or there that the other soldiers are unable to solve. Quarrels in the capital. Burglaries and assault. Unease, unrest, _something_ to keep her perpetually busy while she balances her duties to the Emperor on the other hand.

Mòrag can’t singlehandedly be rid of every single issue that plagues Mor Ardain, nor can she keep Uraya at bay for long, but she can at least keep doing and trying.

She should spare no time to tend to this woman she found on the shores. Still, Mòrag brings her all the way back to the capital and the palace and carries her to her own quarters without telling anyone, ignoring the inquiring looks from the guards who know better than to ask. The Emperor can be told of this later. He’d understand why Mòrag is doing what she does.

… If word spread that a strange _foreigner_ had been brought onto Ardainian soil…

 

* * *

 

Fire.

The smell of burning.

Noises ringing in her head.

It’s loud. Scorching. Someone might be calling to her. Then it’s all dark, and she knows nothing, only that something had gone wrong and then… then… what? What happened next? What happened before?

_Fire—_

Brighid awakens to warmth and sunlight spilling upon her face. She doesn’t move, still struggling in the throes of the fading nightmare, her breathing quick and her skin clammy.

She’s covered by a soft blanket. There are pillows beneath her head. Experimentally, she wriggles her fingers and toes, relieved for reasons unknown when she confirms that all four limbs are still intact. But— they’re sore, and she suspects there may be bruising along her ribs. Brighid winces and blearily looks around.

Someone is there, staring.

“Ah—“ Brighid startles, jolting upright and pushing herself back against that luxurious nest of pillows.

“Please,” the stranger says, showing her palms. “I mean no harm. You were unconscious, so I brought you to safety.”

The stranger’s eyes are warm. So warm. She looks to be around her own age, if Brighid had to wager a guess, although come to think of it— how old was she again…?

Brighid slowly looks down at her hands, flexes her fingers as if to make sure they belong to her, and brings them up to her face. She’s… yes. She’s Brighid. She was unconscious? Her heart won’t stop pounding.

What happens next? What… happened before?

“My name is Mòrag,” she softly says, taking small steps closer to the bed. “I am a knight of Mor Ardain. There is nothing to fear from me, I assure you.”

“Mor Ardain,” Brighid repeats, feeling as though her body is somewhere an ocean away. Mor Ardain. She’d never heard of such a place.

Mòrag nods and lowers her arms. “I found you unconscious along the shoreline, so I brought you back to my residence in the palace. You’ve been asleep for two days.”

Brighid doesn’t know what to say to that. It explains what she’s doing here in this stranger’s room, but it also explains nothing at all. There are… many questions she could be asking, but she has no idea where to start. Mòrag clears her throat when it’s clear Brighid isn’t going to make any sort of comment about that.

May I ask where you came from?”

She thinks.

She thinks.

She _tries_ to think.

The frustration and confusion must show on her features; Mòrag swiftly redirects the question. “Your name, perhaps?”

“Brighid,” she readily answers. That, she knows. Her brows are still pulled together. “My name is Brighid.”

_Where did she come from?_

“Why can’t I remember?” she asks out loud without thinking, threading her hands through her hair. Her hair is… untangled, and soft. Mòrag must have washed and brushed it while she was unconscious. For some reason, the thought doesn’t really bother her. Not nearly as much as these revelations— lack of revelations, at least.

This time, Mòrag is the one to express confusion. “Your memories…?”

“They’re not… I can’t remember—  _why can’t I remember?_ ” Brighid’s fingers curl until she’s digging her nails into her scalp, hunching over to stare wide-eyed at the blanket crumpled over her lap. It’s… distressing, trying to _think_ and finding nothing, as if a piece of herself had been wrenched away. When she concentrates, she knows only her name and nothing more.

She can’t even recall the nightmare that had roused her to consciousness. The smells, the noises, the things that had been imprinted on the back of her eyelids— gone.

There’s a slight pressure on her shoulder. She flinches. The hand is drawn away. Mòrag bites her lower lip.

“I need to remember,” Brighid whispers, this strong compulsion _to remember_ so agonizing and excruciating. “Who am I…?”

Mòrag kneels beside the bed. She touches Brighid’s shoulder again, this time more cautiously as to not startle her. Brighid gradually stops quaking, her breathing slowing down. She may not recall who she is, but she at least knows not to succumb to hysterics.

“I will do _everything_ I can within my power to help you, Brighid,” Mòrag says, and her voice is like a soothing balm that washes over her. To trust a stranger who had put her in a strange room, in an unknown country— to have touched her hair while she was unconscious…

It doesn’t seem right, but it is.

It just is.

“Do you mean it? Truly?” Brighid asks. Something in her chest aches when she looks at Mòrag. Without thinking, she touches the hand that still rests upon her shoulder.

“I swear.”

 

* * *

 

She sleeps on and off in between fitful hours. Sometimes Mòrag is there, and sometimes she isn’t. Brighid’s mind swims within itself, too muddled to really understand, and it only gets worse the harder she concentrates.

It would be nice if she could just physically reach in there and scrub it clean, and then drag up the things that had been buried. Alas, the human mind isn’t so easy to physically manipulate.

When she wakes up again, the sun is shining bright through a window. Mòrag isn’t there. Her head still hurts, as does everything else, but this time Brighid doesn’t immediately drift back to sleep.

She sits up in the bed with a wince and looks around. The room is spacious yet oddly barren in decor. This is compensated for by the opulence of what few furniture there is, however, and Brighid’s first thought is that Mòrag must come from nobility. Of sorts. There’s really nothing interesting to note, aside from a tall bookshelf tucked away in a corner and a map framed above a heavy desk. Brighid squints at the map, but it’s too far to see the details.

What was the name Mòrag had mentioned? The name of the country they’re in. Mor… something. _Gods_ , if her memory retention had been impacted as well, Brighid might just need to scream.

A knock at the door interrupts this distressing thought.

“May I enter?”

A man’s voice, deep in timbre. Brighid hesitates and keeps silent, but the door opens nonetheless.

He’s… _large_ , built like a damn monster with shoulders so broad that the tailor must have had a hell of a time fitting that fine suit on him. His face is framed by a mane of white hair that’s been meticulously groomed, but it still gives some sort of feral vibe about him.

The man bows when he sees Brighid is awake and staring.

“Forgive me for the intrusion. I thought you were asleep.”

“Who are you?” Brighid demands, already wishing Mòrag were here instead despite having only spoken to her once.

“My name is Dromarch. I am a butler in service of the royal family,” he calmly says, his head still bowed.

Wait—

He said… “Royal family?”

“Ah. Did Lady Mòrag neglect to mention that detail?” Dromarch chuckles, a low rumble in his throat, and shakes his head. He briskly walks to the armoire and swings its doors open to place the clothes he’d had folded over one arm in it. “Yes. You’ve been brought to Hardhaigh Palace, the heart of Mor Ardain’s government. A ‘welcome’ would be in order, but I suppose I’ve already been beaten to the punch by my Lady.”

… Royalty. That would explain the luxuriousness of the bed and other furniture, but not the oddly minimalistic layout of the room.

“She… didn’t tell me that.” Brighid straightens up, ignoring the harsh aches in her back. “She didn’t tell me much at all.”

“I suppose she wouldn’t,” Dromarch says. Now that all the clothes had been put away, he closes the armoire and stands with his back against it. He strokes his beard. “She isn’t the type to speak of herself so highly. And besides, I’ve been told that you haven’t had much opportunity for conversation with her.”

Brighid looks away. She doesn’t even know how long she’d been drifting in and out of sleep. It could’ve only been a few hours, or a day, or… days. Multiple days.

“Where is she? I’d like to speak to her.”

“Ahh. Another important piece of information Lady Mòrag may have left aside,” Dromarch says, “is that she is the Knight Commander of the Royal Guard. She’s a very busy woman, you see. But I expect she’ll take the first opportunity she gets to come back to your bedside. To leave a guest waiting for long would be most ungracious.”

“His Majesty is her uncle by blood,” he continues when Brighid has no apparent response to that. “Lady Mòrag is fiercely loyal to him, and to her country and its people. There’s little she wouldn’t do for her duty. For her, nothing else is more important than serving as Knight Commander. So you must be patient if she seems distant, or cold…”

Now, Brighid is only confused again, but in a less frustrating way than the confusion of being unable to remember anything. “I didn’t get that impression at all. Lady Mòrag was nothing but kind to me. She even promised— …”

Dromarch continues stroking his beard, humming in thought. He slowly nods. “Yes. She would do as such. Anyhow, did you have any other questions? Or perhaps a request? I’ve been told to deliver whatever you need while she is out. If you’re feeling peckish, I could order something from the kitchens.”

She can’t get a particularly good read on Dromarch like she had been able to with Mòrag, but this may be the best chance she gets to glean as much information as possible. He seems rather eager to keep talking, anyway, so she might as well let him enjoy the sound of his own voice.

Brighid points to that map hanging above the desk. “Tell me about this land.”

Dromarch nods and walks over to the map. He effortlessly removes it off the wall like it weighs as much as a piece of paper, despite its hefty size and its thick wooden frame, and props it up on the floor for Brighid to get a proper view of it.

“This is the continent of Alrest. Here, to the west, we have Mor Ardain. Mor Ardain occupies an arid region where little life thrives, but the country is built atop a vast underground basin. If you travel east, you will come across the Gormotti Plains. I… come from there, but that’s a story to be saved for another time.”

Dromarch’s shoulders heave with what might have been a sigh, but he continues, pointing to each place on the map. “North of the Gormotti Plains are the Temperantian Wastes. These two regions serve as a sort of natural border between Mor Ardain and Uraya— Uraya, a lush wetland with many swamps, thriving yet drowning, nearly the opposite of Mor Ardain.”

None of the names strike any sort of chord within her, as Brighid had been hoping. Besides, if she had washed up on the western shores of Mor Ardain, there’s little chance of her originating from anyplace inland.

“Then far in the south is the country of Tantal. Admittedly, little is known about Tantal. Ardainians are not well-equipped to deal with the harsh winter climate, and the Tantalese are notoriously xenophobic. They’ve completely isolated themselves from the other countries. … And that would be all the countries of Alrest,” Dromarch finishes rather lamely.

“What about… the lands across the ocean?” Brighid asks, still trying to find _anything_ that sounds familiar. Dromarch resumes stroking his beard.

“Yes… yes, I’ve read some on the topic. There’s little contact between the two continents, however. Between us are the Leftherian Islands, and then several more weeks away by ship is Indol, with two… no, three countries? Their names seem to be evading me at the moment… perhaps there are only two countries, after all, though I’ve heard rumors that there has been a shift of power over there…”

Brighid lifts a hand. She’s suddenly exhausted again. “Thank you for the geography lesson, Dromarch. That will be all.”

“Ah, did my lecture make you drowsy? I jest,” Dromarch chuckles as he puts the map back up on the wall. “Sleep well, Lady Brighid. Should you need anything else, simply call my name.”

He closes the door behind him with a soft click.

Restless sleep plagues Brighid once more. This time, she thinks of those unknown lands across the sea Dromarch had mentioned. But if it takes _weeks_ to sail across the waters, how did she make it to Mor Ardain without drowning…?

The deeper throes of sleep eventually calm her down, and she slips into a state without dreams nor nightmares.

 

* * *

 

Dromarch isn’t there when she wakes up again, but Mòrag is. She’s wearing full armor this time and sitting in a chair beside the bed. Oddly enough, she’s also holding a small cat and trying to pet it, but it keeps gnawing and scratching at her fingers.

“Ah— good morning, Brighid.”

Brighid stifles a yawn. There’s a painful crick in her neck, and the rest of the aches in her body haven’t subsided at all. She stares at the cat for a moment. That… sure is a cat. Why is Mòrag holding a cat?

Mòrag lifts it up. It wriggles in her grasp, limbs flailing about.

“Dromarch thought she might lift your spirits. Do you like cats, Brighid?”

“… I don’t know.”

“Oh. Yes. Of course,” Mòrag awkwardly coughs. She puts the cat down on the bed and it lies down, tucking its paws beneath its body. “How are you feeling?”

Still in general pain all over, still confused and frustrated, but no longer horribly distressed as she had been before. Brighid offers a hand to the cat and it delicately sniffs her knuckles, then laps at her twice with its coarse tongue. All things considered, all this… could be worse. If she’d been found unconscious on a beach, anyone else could have come across her before Mòrag did. Bandits. Wild animals. Or the waters may have pulled her back out to sea, where she would no doubt be dead by now.

“Fine, more or less,” Brighid says. She strokes the cat’s fur. “What’s her name?”

“Nia. Dromarch is her caretaker, but she’s free to roam the palace as she likes. Very useful for culling the rats.”

“I see.” She’s not particularly interested in the cat, truth be told, but it’s nice to have something to keep half her attention diverted, to look distracted. Nia doesn’t seem interested in this new person either, simply tolerating the petting unlike how she had been vehemently snapping at Mòrag’s fingers earlier. “Lady Mòrag…”

The mention of the title gets Mòrag’s head to snap up. “He told you?”

“Of how you’re royalty and the Knight Commander? Yes. Was I not supposed to know?”

“No— it’s no secret at all. I was just… planning on telling you myself,” Mòrag admits, rubbing the back of her neck. She’s… pouting. Almost. For the first time, Brighid laughs.

It hurts her lungs and her ribs, but that’s fine.

Mòrag does see her wince, though. She reaches for her and Nia immediately swipes her claws up. If Mòrag weren’t wearing her gauntlets, her hands would have been finely shredded by now, Brighid suspects.

“Are you still in pain?”

“It’s nothing I can’t handle,” Brighid says, though her voice is tight. “Just some bruising, maybe…”

“There were bruises,” Mòrag nods.

“… You looked?”

Her eyes go wide and she leans back in her seat, pulling her arms back to her sides. “You were covered in sand, and— your dress was nearly ruined, I couldn’t simply leave you in that state so I— I kept my eyes closed, I assure you!”

She laughs again, and her ribs protest once more as she doubles over. “It’s _okay_ , Lady Mòrag. You don’t strike me as the type with wandering hands.”

“Perish the thought,” Mòrag groans, hiding her face behind her palms.

Though now that she mentions it… of course. Brighid hadn’t even given much thought to the clothes she’s currently wearing, or that she might have been wearing something else before. “Was there anything else on my person when you found me? Anything in my pockets, perhaps?”

“No, but… there was a circlet.” Mòrag stands and walks over to the desk. She opens one of the drawers and pulls it out— an ornate circlet of silver and crystal, so thin that Brighid fears it could snap apart in Mòrag’s hands. She brings it back to show her, setting it on the covers beside Nia (who ignores the entire thing, dozing off now).

Brighid picks it up. The metal is cool to the touch.

“Does it have any significance?”

She sorely wishes she could say yes. “… It doesn’t.” It’s just jewelry, as far as she can tell.

“I’ve never seen anything of that fashion in Mor Ardain. Nor in Gormott, and the Urayans could never possibly create something so refined.” Mòrag absentmindedly reaches for Nia, and the cat clamps onto her gauntlet, chewing and clawing at the metal.

“I need to go overseas,” Brighid says. “Whatever I’m looking for, I’ll likely find it there.”

Mòrag is silent, watching Nia trying to bite through her armor. “I could charter a ship for you. But in your current condition, I would recommend you take plenty of time to heal.”

Brighid is… impatient, but that makes sense. If she tried to go out to sea as she is now, she’d only suffer more. … Does she get seasick easily? She can’t remember.

“Pardon,” Mòrag mutters, standing up. “I need to return to my duties.”

“When will you be back?”

“Tonight, most likely,” she says. “I don’t know if Dromarch told you, but the country’s current situation is…” She struggles to find the right word, and sighs. “There are other things I must think about. I’m sorry, Brighid. Would you like me to leave Nia here with you?”

Brighid, feeling oddly empty all of the sudden, nods. “Thank you, Lady Mòrag.”

“I’ll be seeing you later, then.”

She’s gone. The room is silent once more. Brighid looks down at Nia, who blinks up at her before standing up and hopping off the bed.

“You have other places to be as well, don’t you?”

The cat blinks again, then turns and slips out the door.

 

* * *

 

Every attempt to walk more than a few paces is met by protesting waves of pain that render her all but immobile, and so Brighid finds herself confined to these chambers for the time being. But it’s not that bad. Mòrag is attentive and polite, fretful over her ward in her own subdued ways. She always has her duties to attend to, though, so Brighid whiles away the afternoons reading books that Dromarch puts on the nightstand for her, or looking out the window at the city below.

Most of the time, though, she tries to remember.

Where did she come from? Does she have family? Friends? People who are wondering where she is? What led up to her washing up on the shores of Mor Ardain, unconscious and wounded enough that she’s still bedridden like this?

Who was she? Who _is_ she?

Mòrag has no answers, to her clear regret. She sees how Brighid is tormented by the gaps in her memories, and the books are a fine distraction, but they can only distract for so long. She needs to get up. Get out of the room. Find something, _anything_ , that could potentially trigger a revelation.

And it isn’t as though she’s being kept prisoner. Dromarch regularly drops in to deliver drinks and food and anything else Brighid could possibly want, and the door is kept unlocked, but she’s simply physically unable to get up and walk around. And while Dromarch is pleasant enough company, he has his own job to do as well. Much of those days is spent in relative silence. It feels like an eternity of being trapped in her own blank mind. Sometimes, Nia will slip inside, but only to scratch at the curtains or knock things off the tables before slipping back out.

On the third day, Brighid insists that she be brought outside.

“Your bed is comfortable, but I do need fresh air,” she says. Mòrag is flitting around her like an anxious dog, ready to catch her should she stumble. Today, for once, she’s not kept away by her job. It’s another reason why Brighid is so insistent on getting out of the room.

“I understand, but—“

“I’ll be fine.”

Probably. The first step is easy. So is the second. Her muscles ache from lack of use and there’s still a lingering soreness from the battering of the ocean currents that had brought her to Mor Ardain (and something else?), but she’s able to slowly walk all the way to the door.

There, she pauses.

“… I’m grateful for all you’ve done for me. Really.” She means it, too.

“I’ve hardly done anything,” Mòrag says, still ready to catch Brighid just in case. “You haven’t been able to remember anything else…”

“I don’t even know why you’re this worried,” she says. “You have more important things to think about. Didn’t you tell me as such?”

“Am I not allowed to have more than one issue on my mind?”

“Please don’t burden yourself with so much stress on my behalf, Lady Mòrag. I’ll just…” Brighid swallows, still standing in the doorway. She really doesn’t know what to do, without knowing anything. It isn’t as though she’d leave the palace and try to find a new life here, in Alba Cavanich. No. She’d sooner slide a knife down her throat before allowing herself to succumb to such complacency.

She needs her _memories_ , but she still has no idea how to begin searching for them short of risking a treacherous journey across the ocean to unknown lands.

As if reading her thoughts, Mòrag gently rests a hand on her elbow. “Stay here as long as you need to.”

“If I’m not imposing.” She looks over her shoulder at the bed that she’d been occupying. Mòrag’s bed. It felt awkward at first, knowing that she had essentially given up her own personal chambers just for Brighid’s privacy and comfort.

That hand on her elbow slides down to her wrist. “I promised I would help you, so I will, no matter how long it would take.”

Once, Brighid had asked why, and the answer wasn’t enough.

_Because I want to._

But it was apparently enough for Mòrag.

Brighid wonders if she had ever met anyone so selfless and kind before.

“Shall we, then?” Mòrag nods her head in the other direction, offering her arm for Brighid to take. The armor is imposing and has sharp angles, but she finds a spot to comfortably grip.

“… Yes, lead the way.”

So they go, walking down the vast halls of the palace together. Maybe… she’d seen something like this before…

No. She’s just imagining things now, grasping at straws. None of it strikes any sort of chord within her, as much as she would like it to.

“Are you alright, Brighid?”

“As fine as I’ll ever be,” she lightly says. Then, she quickly adds, “But I appreciate your concern.”

Mòrag simply hums under her breath.

The capital is a striking change of scenery from the tranquility of the palace interior. It’s noisy. Smelly. Crowded. People here openly stare as them, whereas the palace guards only offered curt nods of respect whenever they passed by. The open-air market only adds to the grotesque odor in the air of smoke and steel, and someone from a window pours water out onto the dusty street below, and a merchant tries to draw them over to look at his wares with excited hand gestures. A wagon pulled by horses pushes its way through the crowd, accompanied by shouting for people to get out of its way, then it’s gone around the corner.

There’s far too much happening for Brighid to comprehend. She tightens her grip on Mòrag’s arm.

“Alba Cavanich,” Mòrag says, speaking only loudly enough for Brighid to be able to hear over the din of people around them. As bustling as the crowds are, pedestrians seem to naturally give them a wide berth— no, they’re giving Mòrag a wide berth, either out of fear or respect, Brighid isn’t quite sure. The way her cape flows behind her certainly strikes an imposing figure, at least. “The heart of Mor Ardain. It may not be particularly appealing on the surface, but our people are hardy and spirits unwavering.”

“It’s… nice,” is all Brighid can think of to say. The disparity between the grandiosity of the palace and the clutter of the streets is too wide to not notice.

“There’s no need to lie, Brighid. I can see the way your nose wrinkles.” But Mòrag laughs, no offense taken. “This must be overwhelming after being confined in that stuffy room. Come. There’s a park not far from here, where we can find a place to rest.”

A merchant, particularly bold, comes right up to them, brandishing trinkets in their faces and saying things too quickly for Brighid to catch on. She cringes back at the sudden intrusion of personal space, but Mòrag calmly sweeps him aside with one arm, somehow polite at the same time, and leads Brighid away as if she’s used to that sort of thing.

Nothing seems to faze Mòrag, she notes. Well, perhaps. She’s… _different_ out here, somehow, more imposing and regal.

When she’s alone with Brighid, her eyes are softer than this.

The park that Mòrag had mentioned isn’t much more than a space of withered grass and scrawny trees. The paths are lined with empty flowerboxes and that dusty breeze still persists. But it’s quieter than it had been in the market, and Brighid is grateful when they find a bench to sit on.

Her palms are sweaty from holding onto Mòrag’s arm this entire time. The vambrace had begun to grow hot beneath the afternoon sun. She has half a mind to ask Mòrag how she isn’t dying of heatstroke in her armor, but decides it would be a silly question and bites it back.

Now that she thinks of it, she hardly knows anything about her benefactor.

A strange feeling, not quite guilt, spreads beneath her skin. Has she truly been so absorbed in her own agony over her amnesia that she’d been essentially ignoring Mòrag? Surely not— and Mòrag must understand, if that, because she’s been so accommodating and patient with Brighid, and….

“… Lady Mòrag?” Damn it all, now she just feels awkward. Mòrag, who had been quietly basking in the heat beside her, turns her head.

“Yes? What is it?”

“You get nothing from helping me,” she says, everything that had been building up in the past few days spilling past the dam. “There’s nothing I can offer as repayment. Yet you’ve treated me as though I’m some… _guest of honor_ , even when I’ve been utterly helpless and occupying your own personal chambers— what do you _want?_ ”

Her eyebrows go up in mild surprise, and Brighid wishes she had bitten her tongue. Maybe the question about her armor would have been a better starter than this.

“Nothing,” she says.

That can’t be it.

“I only do what needs to be done.”

She can’t be serious.

But Mòrag _is_ serious, apparently, and she turns to fully face Brighid. “Admittedly, I’m curious as well. An unknown foreigner with no memories washing upon my country’s shores? I would have had reason to be suspicious, and maybe I should be, but I believe I can trust you.”

“ _Why?_ ” Brighid asks.

“I don’t know,” she admits, looking down. “The empire has had its fair share of spies and traitors. Sometimes… I don’t even know if I can trust my own soldiers.”

Yes, she’d told Brighid about the conflicts currently striking Mor Ardain from all sides. Tension with the neighboring country. Rebellions hell-bent on overthrowing the current Emperor. Dwindling resources. Nothing that Brighid should, or needs to worry about, because she knows she doesn’t belong here, but Mòrag…

“But doubting the loyalty of every man under my command would only serve to weaken the spine of the empire. And besides, if I did not trust you, how could you ever trust me?”

She does trust Mòrag. She trusted her from the moment she introduced herself to Brighid upon her awakening, and she certainly trusts her after days of being cared for. Soon, she’ll be fully healed, and Brighid could just leave to search for whatever she’s meant to search for.

Or she could stay here, with Mòrag, in this dying empire.

“I don’t know what the old me was like,” Brighid says, after consideration. “But I think she would have trusted you as well.”

Her hand finds its way back to Mòrag’s vambrace. For some reason, the heat of the metal doesn’t quite bother her as much anymore. Besides, Mòrag’s smiling, and that’s more than good enough. Right now, this decrepit park might as well be overflowing with greenery and life.

She won’t let this drag her down to despair. Or at least, she’ll try. “I’d like to make some new memories, too. Would you bring me back to the market?”

“Your legs are fine? You’re not tired anymore?”

Brighid shakes her head and begins to stand, and Mòrag is immediately there to steady her when she sways. Why must her body feel so _weak?_ But she gently pushes Mòrag back, although she keeps a hand on her arm.

It would be nice to know what exactly had happened to leave her in this condition, but for the first time in days, Brighid supposes she can leave those thoughts and questions for later.

 

* * *

 

There’s trouble stirring the dust when they return to the busier part of the city.

Mòrag is immediately on high alert, hand upon the hilt of her sword, and she gently pushes Brighid behind her as some people rush past them and others murmur in confusion to one another. Someone is _yelling_ , and yelling isn’t a particularly strange thing to hear in a crowded market, but the tone carries a harsh note of anger and— then a loud clang of steel, and Mòrag is rushing in.

Brighid follows, barely able to keep up. People are no longer giving Mòrag a wide berth as they had been when they had simply been strolling through the marketplace, and the further in they go the more panicked the crowd seems to be. She stumbles and manages to grab a fistful of Mòrag’s cape.

“Lady Mòrag—“

“Find someplace safe!” she barks out.

She cranes her neck, trying to look beyond the moving sea of people while still holding onto Mòrag’s cape. There, not far ahead; the sun glints off a blade as it arcs through the air, striking metal. There are soldiers trying to usher people away from the fight, but then others are shoving against the flow with their own weapons in hand—

Mòrag draws her sword. She looks over her shoulder, eyes pleading at Brighid.

“You must get away. I’ll come for you shortly.”

It’s not because she wants to stay with her, she’s certain Mòrag can handle herself against these ruffians and she’s not so foolish enough to get in the way, but some sort of dormant instinct is telling her not to run…

The cape slips between her fingers. Mòrag takes the opportunity to slip away from Brighid, and a soldier steps in front of her, blocking her view.

“All citizens must—“

Brighid pushes him aside and catches a glimpse of someone drawing a knife from beneath their cloak.

A scream pierces the din of fighting.

Still, the noises only grow louder, and now the world is spinning as Brighid stumbles away and finds herself leaning heavily against a merchant’s table. Sweat pours down her temples, and she realizes she’s breathing so quickly that— ah, that’s why everything’s spinning. Someone jostles her as they run past and she falls forward with a grunt.

A man, probably the owner of the stall, is cowering behind the table. Brighid stares back at him.

“What’s happening?” The pain in her body is excruciating, on top of her head throbbing. She isn’t sure if she can even get up on her feet like this. Maybe she’d be better off hiding down here with this merchant until the chaos subsides.

“H-Hell if I’d know!” He curls himself up into a ball. “It’s probably those damn rebels again! Don’t they know the citizens have nothin’ to do with their cause?! Go attack the palace, don’t drag us innocents into it—!”

That instinct, the one that had stopped her from heeding Mòrag’s orders and getting as far away from the violence as possible, tugs at her once more. The merchant asks her something but she doesn’t hear him as she grips the edge of the table, using it to shakily pull herself up.

“I need to go.”

“Me too, lady, but I think I’m gonna take my chances down here!”

What little civilians had been left running around are gone, and now Brighid only sees soldiers clashing with those supposed rebels. She can’t see Mòrag anywhere.

Her hand brushes against something, and she looks down. It’s a book. The merchant’s table is covered with books, most of them knocked from their neat piles onto the ground. The throbbing in her head only becomes more painful as she picks up the one she had touched, its cover embossed and pages dangerously thin.

“What is this?”

“Uhhh, now’s not really the time for buyin’…”

Brighid shoots a glare at the merchant. He flinches.

“A tome! I sell tomes! Not that I get many buyers, since Mor Ardain’s lacking in mages— and, hey! Don’t think you can rob me just ‘cuz I’m hidin’! … Did you hear me?! Lady! Whaddya think you’re doin’?! Bring that back—!”

Not right now. She needs to find Mòrag. Her body suddenly feels weightless, all the pain gone, as she walks back out into the street. She maneuvers between soldiers and rebels and around the reach of swinging blades, tome in hand. Something is _screaming_ within her, on the verge of breaking through— 

She hears a shout, _Mòrag’s_ shout, and now Brighid can see her as clear as day past all the fighting just ahead. Mòrag cuts down the ruffian that had been trading blows with her and runs toward Brighid, everything in slow motion as someone bumps into her, the tome nearly slipping from her grasp, and Brighid takes notice of someone else rushing towards her with a knife brandished.

Without even thinking, she opens the book and mutters under her breath, the motion as natural as breathing.

Fire erupts around her with a roar. Everyone, soldiers and insurgents alike, pause in their fighting to stare at this wondrous sight, but the wonder and awe quickly becomes horror as the fire spreads to indiscriminately burn. The man who had been running at her is on fire, screaming.

Brighid continues to mutter under her breath, eyes trained on the spider-like writing in the tome.

“ _Brighid!_ ”

Her head snaps up. Mòrag is— she’s fighting through the flames, trying to get near.

“Brighid! Put out the flames! You’ll burn the buildings—!”

Oh. Oh, yes. She snaps the tome shut. Mòrag grabs her shoulders, her face slightly singed beneath her helmet.

“Did you remember, Brighid?!”

… Even right now, in the midst of this violent chaos, she would think to ask of _that?_ Brighid slowly shakes her head.

“I didn’t remember. I simply hadn’t forgotten.”

Mòrag looks around them, breathing hard. The soldiers had taken advantage of that moment of confusion to gain the upper hand. What had been a frenzied stalemate before is beginning to turn to favor the soldiers.

“You’re not hurt? Any cuts?” Mòrag takes a step back to look her over.

Brighid shakes her head. She looks down at the tome, so innocuous now in her hands. That merchant will probably be demanding payment, but… she’ll probably be purchasing his entire stock anyway. Or rather, Mòrag will be buying it all for her.

This is something she’ll need to mull over in quiet, not out here.

“Lady Mòrag!” A soldier calls. “The insurgents are beginning to fall back! We’ve rounded up about a dozen of ‘em!”

Then Mòrag is stepping away after a quick apology to resume command, directing orders to take the captured rebels into custody and to send other soldiers to follow the ones that had escaped. Brighid steps back to watch, clutching the tome close to her chest. It’s warm.

She thinks back to how the searing heat of Mòrag’s armor wasn’t painful to the touch.

 

* * *

 

Night had long since fallen by the time Mòrag returns and is able to take her armor off. Brighid had gone ahead to wait in her room hours earlier with her newly-purchased collection of tomes (the merchant had been _ecstatic_ when the Knight Commander herself had brought out her coin purse).

She looks through each one. The words mean nothing in particular when translated but she silently forms each one with her mouth nonetheless, all of it hauntingly familiar upon her tongue. Forseti. Goetia. Mjölnir. Ragnarok.

At the other side of the room, Mòrag has finished taking off her armor pieces. She sweeps her fingers through her hair after she sets down her helm.

“… Have you been able to recall anything else?”

“No,” Brighid says, flipping through pages as if one of the spells could hold some key to her lost memories. “But this has to be a start, doesn’t it? I’m a mage. So there must be some arts that could be of use to me.”

“Mor Ardain has very few magic users within our population.”

“Yes, the merchant who sold these to us said as much.”

Mòrag sits on one of the lounges and stretches herself out on the cushions, releasing all the tension from the day in a long exhale. “Ardainians simply lack the aptitude for magic. I myself had tried to learn when I was younger, but I found a sword to be more suited for my hand than a tome.”

“Being able to use magic is… something a person is born with,” Brighid says. It’s not even relevant to her personal memories, it’s just a random fact that surfaced in her mind, like how she still knows that water is wet and fire is hot. “When I learned…” She frowns.

Mòrag waits with held breath, but Brighid ends up shaking her head. “I don’t remember.”

“All in due time,” Mòrag says, dropping her head back down on the cushions. “I’ve spoken to the healers and apothecaries in the palace. They all said it would be best not to rush these things.”

No rush… no rush? But that nagging feeling that someone could be waiting for her, somewhere, maybe even looking for her, had never left her since the day she had awakened. The events of the day were a fine distraction, but now Brighid has nothing to avert her attention from that itching sense of urgency.

She closes her eyes and thinks back to the riot that had disrupted the bustle of the capital. The fighting had erupted out of nowhere, and Brighid had been caught up directly in the midst of it, but for some reason she hadn’t been afraid at all. Even when that man with the knife ran at her, there was nothing but an odd calmness. _Familiarity._

She’d been in a similar situation before. Many times, perhaps. The fact that using that tome had come so easily to her should be proof enough.

“The attack in the market was meant to be a distraction,” Mòrag says, momentarily breaking Brighid’s train of thought. “The palace guards caught two of them trying to sneak in. They… intended to go for my uncle and his son, most likely, while the other soldiers and I were occupied in the city.”

“So, now what?”

“Security will be tightened. More guards will be put on patrol.” She sighs. “We lost the trail of the few that got away, but the hunt will resume tomorrow. Crushing the rebellion at its source is going to be our foremost priority.”

Brighid shuts the tome and pushes the chair back. She can move about freely without any aches now, as though using the magic had drained all her pains away. Mòrag’s eyes are closed and remain closed as Brighid walks over to her, looking down. Without her armor, and loosely sprawled out like that, she looks so… normal.

There’s always been something comforting about her presence. For a split second, Brighid is tempted to brush a loose strand of hair away from Mòrag’s face.

“You mustn’t worry about me, when you have a country to protect,” Brighid says.

“I…” Mòrag’s eyes, still closed, squeeze tightly. She’s tired. Brighid can discern that much. “I promised, though. I swore to you, that I would help you recover your memories.”

“Is this about your honor as a knight?”

“No, it’s… well, partly.” She takes a deep breath. “As Knight Commander of the Emperor’s guard, my duties to the throne and the empire always come first and foremost. But… I am still _Mòrag_ , and I have never personally wanted for much, but…”

Brighid may be lacking everything that made her whoever she used to be, but she hasn’t lost her senses. She kneels and lays a hand on Mòrag’s upper arm.

“… Don’t let your personal feelings get in the ways of your duties, Lady Mòrag.”

When Mòrag opens her eyes, she’s hurting, and wanting.

“Brighid…”

“You’ve never done this kind of thing before, have you?”

She turns herself over on the lounge, lying on her side now to fully face Brighid. The words now tumble from her mouth, strikingly ungraceful. “Today, during the attack in the market— a part of me had wanted to grab you and run, _run away_ from the danger, because I believed you to be far too vulnerable—“

“But you couldn’t run.”

“No, I— I could never run from battle. I’d rather die of shame. So instead, I only told you to run.”

“I didn’t, though.”

“I know. When I saw you still there, walking between the soldiers and insurgents fighting…” Mòrag squeezes her eyes shut again, letting out a soft hiss between clenched teeth. Brighid moves her palm up and down her arm.

“How long have you felt this way?”

“… Since our very first conversation, when I swore to help you,” she says, ashamed, red burning her ears. “I’m— I’m sorry.”

The signs were never there, simply because Mòrag was careful not to let them show. For all her veneers of stoicism and authority, she’s remarkably easy to read.

Brighid almost feels like crying. Or laughing. Possibly both. All her emotions had been a murky storm of confusion and frustration lately, but this— this is clarity, so utterly foolish and joyous. A singular pinpoint of happiness in a sea of uncertainty. She takes one of Mòrag’s hands in both her own and feels it back and front. The calluses are hardly noticeable.

“Anyone else could have found you, on that beach,” Mòrag whispers, her fingers twitching beneath Brighid’s gentle touches. “I only happened to be in the right place in the right time.”

“Then the benevolent gods must have been watching, to have led you to me.”

“This continent does not have divine gods, as others may do…”

She laughs and lightly drags her nails down Mòrag’s palm. Oh, why must she be so damn serious? The gentle scratching gets a small twitch at the corners of Mòrag’s lips, but not quite a smile. Soon enough, they fall to a frown.

“I… can’t,” she says, with a tangible note of defeat. Brighid stops scratching her palm. “I dedicated my life to my uncle and the empire when I took the mantle of Knight Commander. And when he passes, my duty will be to serve his son.”

“But it’s _your_ life, Lady Mòrag. Is that really all you want out of it?”

She pauses, only for a short second, but it’s enough for Brighid to read the hesitation. “Oftentimes, people are born into their roles.”

“Perhaps I was born with one too, but I’ve obviously forgotten what it is,” Brighid sarcastically says. She begins to stand, tugging at Mòrag to get up as well. “We should talk this over properly after a night’s rest. It’s getting late, and the day had been long.”

“Y— Yes. You’re right. Apologies, I’ve kept you up long enough, so I’ll be on my way—“

“Would you spend the night with me?”

Mòrag rapidly blinks. “Pardon?”

“Would you spend the night with me?” Brighid repeats. She gestures to the bed. “I’m anxious, you see, after the attack today…”

That’s a blatantly transparent lie. Mòrag probably knows that, but she wouldn’t point it out. She stammers out something and tugs at her collar. Brighid sleeping in her chambers hadn’t been an issue, Mòrag had simply taken one of the many other spare rooms within the palace for herself. The thought of sharing it with Brighid— much less sharing the bed— had never crossed her mind.

… Admittedly, it might have. Just once. Or twice. But she’s the _Knight Commander_ of Mor Ardain. There’s an image to uphold with the position, and… and…

Brighid goes over to sit on the bed. She pats the sheets invitingly.

“I’d just like a warm body next to me, for a change of pace.”

Her heart is pounding. Maybe Mòrag’s is, also. She’s just _standing_ there, awkward in her own skin, all her regal dignity and controlled impassiveness stripped away.

“I-I should bathe, first.”

“You can do that in the morning.” She pats the sheets again and lies down. “Please. Humor me.”

At last, Mòrag takes shaky steps to the bed. She removes her doublet and her trousers, and hesitantly crawls beneath the covers. Brighid closes her eyes and scoots closer. She can smell Mòrag— her scent, her sweat, and a vague hint of perfume.

Without thinking, too groggy from exhaustion to consider her actions, Brighid drapes an arm across Mòrag’s chest and pulls herself even closer. Mòrag’s breathing is quick and she’s lying as stiff as a corpse.

A small, small smile finds its way to Brighid’s face before she falls asleep like that.

 

* * *

 

The night seems to drag on for an eternity. Mòrag doesn’t dare move even after her heartbeat returns to a resting pace. Brighid’s breath is warm against her neck. Her arm is warm, too. Everything is warm.

But it does give her a chance to think.

 _What is she doing_ , for starters? She’d always prided herself on her unbroken discipline. Even in her younger days as a child, as a squire, she’d been nothing but diligent to her studies and training. Distractions weren’t an option. Failure meant death. When she blossomed into a young adult and began to catch the eyes of women around the capital, it still meant nothing.

The empire always came first, no matter what. The empire was her entire life.

What an empty life, she now realizes.

Because life without purpose is… nothing. But that can’t be right. The empire _is_ her purpose.

By choice.

And not because it was the only option she had ever been given.

Yet Brighid is here right up against her, holding her so closely like no one had ever done before, and now Mòrag can feel the cracks of doubt beginning to spread like cobwebs. She needs to stay focused. There was an insurgent attack just today, for crying out loud. Meanwhile, the council still rumbles with talks of war against Uraya, planning to seize territory to combat the issue of rapidly dwindling resources.

Brighid is nothing but a distraction. A welcome distraction, but still a distraction.

… She swore to help Brighid. Yes, it was an oath. It isn’t as though she would break that promise, either.

Slowly, carefully, Mòrag shifts positions to face Brighid, and lays an arm over her waist.

 

* * *

 

There’s knocking at the door.

Mòrag stirs, still caught in the tangles of heavy slumber. Something moves against her.

Ah. That’s right. She spent the night with Brighid.

Somehow, the thought isn’t as terrifying as it had been last night. She blearily opens her eyes as there’s another knock, and realizes they’d shifted around in their sleep and Brighid is now pressed up against her from behind, holding her close. There’s… a softness, pushed to her back…

Another knock. “My Lady?”

Oh, it’s just Dromarch. Very reluctantly, Mòrag pulls herself away from Brighid to sit up, rubbing at her eyes. Brighid murmurs something in her sleep but remains unawakened.

“One moment!”

She gets dressed as quickly as she can and straightens herself out before swinging the door open to greet Dromarch. Nia is perched on his shoulder, squinting rather suspiciously. Dromarch gestures to the cart beside him.

“Good morning. I brought breakfast for both of you.”

“Thank… you…” Mòrag mirrors Nia’s squint as something occurs to her. “How did you know I would be here?”

“We didn’t see you leave these chambers last night,” Dromarch says matter-of-factly. “So naturally, I assumed…”

He looks past Mòrag. Brighid is still sound asleep, loosely curved around the empty spot beside her that Mòrag had occupied.

“Nothing happened,” she firmly says.

“As you say, my Lady.”

She swears the way Nia is looking at her is meant to be smug. Good thing cats can’t speak. Mòrag steps aside to allow Dromarch to bring the cart in, suddenly unsure what to do or say. At least Dromarch is tactful enough to not make any further comments or ask questions, but Nia… yes, it really is a good thing that cats can’t talk.

“We’ll be on our way, then,” Dromarch says, swiftly catching Nia when she tries to leap off his shoulder. Mòrag closes the door as soon as they’re out and simply stands there for a moment, thinking.

That conversation she had with Brighid last night…

It doesn’t seem as though she’s going to wake up any time soon. Mòrag uses the opportunity to put on her armor, careful not to make too much noise. It… isn’t that she doesn’t want to finish that conversation. She needs to. They need to. But confronting all of that is a non-priority when she needs to be focusing on the uprising within the country, and the potential war with Uraya, and resource allocations, and too many other little things. She mustn’t distract herself with her own personal problems.

Her own problems are nothing, compared to the grand scale of what could potentially devastate an entire country. That’s how it had always been.

“Lady Mòrag…?”

With impeccable timing, too. Mòrag had just been contemplating leaving the room before Brighid woke up, as rude as she knows that would have been. Brighid raises her head, blearily squinting.

“Brighid,“ She swiftly crosses the room to the bed, looking down at her. “I need to go, now.”

“Where to?”

“Remember what we discussed last night?” Mòrag winces at that vague choice of words. She kneels to speak to her at eye level. “I mean… regarding the riot and the insurgents. I’m leading the manhunt.”

She can’t tell if Brighid is still drowsy or not. But then Brighid suddenly grabs her wrist.

“I’ll come with you.”

Mòrag balks. “You should be resting…”

“I’m _fine._ I’ve rested long enough. And I won’t be deadweight.” Brighid sits up and gestures to the pile of tomes on the desk. “Having a mage amongst your soldiers should be a boon, would it not? I know how to fight, Lady Mòrag. I don’t know how to explain it— I still can’t remember anything of my past, but when I read those tomes, I simply… knew.”

She’s still hesitating. Brighid feels a small twinge of annoyance and pulls at Mòrag’s arm.

“If it will make you feel better, I’ll stay close to you.”

“… Are you sure, Brighid?”

“It’s the least I could do for you.”

Another long moment of consideration passes. But Mòrag eventually bows her head in acquiescence. “As you will.”

“And _then_ we can discuss the other part of last night’s conversation.”

Brighid cheerfully swings her legs over the other side of the bed, pretending that she doesn’t notice the panic crossing Mòrag’s face.

 

* * *

 

Brighid has little knowledge of Mor Ardain’s military structure, nor is she particularly interested in learning all the ins and outs and ranks and hierarchy. All she knows is that there’s one emperor, a war council, and Mòrag somewhere around the top of the ladder as Knight Commander. The soldiers they meet with all look identical in their uniforms and helmets. They stand to attention when Mòrag approaches with Brighid only a couple paces behind her, walking a bit to the side as to avoid being blinded by Mòrag’s sweeping cape.

She spaces out as Mòrag speaks to them, and is still mildly spacing out as they begin the march outside the city into the desert wastes.

Mor Ardain really is desolate. Alba Cavanich may be thriving with life, as dusty as the streets are, but there’s practically nothing outside the walls save for the husks of villages that had been abandoned long ago and a few withered trees.

And sand. Lots, and lots of sand. Mòrag had given her a set of clothes and boots made to protect and adapt to the wastes, but Brighid can already feel the pressures of the late morning sun bearing down. The soldiers, covered head to toe, sway on their horses. Brighid had been given her own horse as well, which diligently stays close to Mòrag’s own steed.

“They escaped somewhere in that direction, ma’am,” a soldier near the front points to the east. “Before that sandstorm forced us back.”

“It’s a start,” Mòrag sighs. “They certainly won’t have buried themselves in the sand. Therefore…”

“The ruins of Teddim seem likely?”

“ _Too_ likely. And we’ve already swept that area in previous searches.”

“True, but…”

“They could be moving from one place to another.”

“That too.”

“They may have also intentionally run east, then doubled back to head west.”

“Oh, yeah.”

“There are plenty of ruins and caverns they could be hiding in.”

“A _lot._ ”

“But they would need to stay close to a source of water.”

“Makes sense.”

“… Do you have anything helpful to add, or are you only going to agree with everything I say?”

“S-Sorry! Ma’am!”

Brighid stifles a chuckle as the soldier pulls at his reigns to fall back a bit. “That was harsh.”

“Was it?” Mòrag absentmindedly says. “I know this area well. Over there— we’ll find the ruins of Teddim. Head west and there will be an oasis, though it’s too small to support a village. The wastes are also host to several networks of caverns that extend underground.”

“Your theory about the insurgents relocating sounds likely.”

“They’ve been active for well over a year, now. We still don’t even know who their leader is…”

“We’ll find them,” Brighid says, but the forced confidence feels far too artificial. Mòrag seems to think so as well, and she only nods.

The horses continue marching through the wastes until the sand gives way to more solid ground, and they find themselves going through a narrow ravine with tall cliffs overseeing from both sides. Despite the shade they provide the air still shimmers with the heat, and in the distance Brighid can now see dark shapes rising in the distance. Those aforementioned ruins, she assumes.

“They were running straight in this direction! I swear!” That soldier from before calls out from behind. Mòrag pulls her horse to a stop, and the rest of the squadron halts as well. Dusty wind whips around them with a soft whistling.

“The monsters that have inhabited the ruins before are…”

The whistling grows louder. Hairs on the back of her neck are rising. Some unexplainable instinct, like the one that had pulled her to set the street on fire, is screaming again in her head.

This time, Brighid doesn’t hesitate. She reaches for one of tomes she’d brought along and _yells_ , just as an arrow whizzes past her ear.

“ _Arcwind!_ ”

That desert wind is agitated, violently blowing around their group as their horses whinny, and Brighid glimpses more arrows being knocked off course that had been headed their way. The soldiers are drawing their weapons, and Mòrag her sword—

“An ambush!” Mòrag shouts. “Do not lose formation!”

“They’re comin’ from the left!”

“No, the right—!”

“We’re surrounded!”

Brighid doesn’t hear any of the shouting. She sees the insurgents rushing in, most at the front and coming in from behind— only ten, twelve… twenty. Twenty six. They’re outnumbered, but only by a dozen. And they have the advantage of being on horseback, and with that element of surprise ruined— Brighid mutters, and lightning strikes one of their assailants down.

Twenty five.

It’s easy. _Too_ easy, even, and she suspects this is only a fraction of what the insurgents have to offer. Archers that may have posed a serious threat are swiftly dispatched with Brighid’s magic, allowing Mòrag and the other soldiers to cut down the others that are on foot.

The battle is swift, but brutal. But the sight of the blood seeping into the dusty ground doesn’t even faze Brighid.

… It’s familiar, and she feels something welling up. A memory…?

Ah.

“We got one!” A soldier shouts. He and another soldier have an insurgent on the ground, held down with their lances crossed at his throat. “Maybe we can get some info outta him!”

Mòrag is dismounting her horse to approach, but Brighid is only paying half-attention, still staring at all that blood that now stains the earth. She’d seen something like this before. Done something like this before. Just like with all that fire and the fighting, stirring something, and…

Everything is a dim blur. She hears Mòrag repeating her name in question, and hears herself mumbling a response, and sees their captured prisoner being dragged, and feels the pages of the tome between her fingers.

She’s remembering. Almost.

All that _blood_ on the ground.

Mòrag is still calling her name.

No, no, stop calling her. She’s so close—  _so close_ , on the cusp of remembering, if only she could see just a little more. Her head is spinning as fast as the winds she had summoned. The smell of something burning fills her nose, but nothing is on fire. Is nothing on fire? Everything should be on fire–

Everything goes black, just for a second.

When she opens her eyes, she’s back at the palace with clarity returned like someone snapped their fingers.

She doesn’t remember.

None of it came back.

It wrenches at the core of her being with excruciating pain. She… shouldn’t have been distracted. If only she’d focused harder. On that blood.

“Brighid!”

If only.

“ _Brighid!_ ”

Mòrag, without her armor, is gripping her shoulders. She’s not wearing her armor. But she just was, out in the wastes. Oh, gods, how much time had passed again? Brighid stares up at her with tears welling in her eyes.

“… I almost remembered something.”

The ambush in the desert and their hunt for the revolutionaries’ base doesn’t even matter anymore, already a long time past. What grotesque selfishness, she thinks to herself. But Mòrag is throwing herself down upon her in a tight hug.

“You fell off your horse so suddenly—“

“How clumsy of me.”

“Your eyes were open, but…”

“I’m sorry.”

“And then you’d passed out for a whole day.”

“Maybe it was the desert heat.”

… A whole day, though. She can still smell the steel and blood in the dusty air.

“ _Brighid._ ” Mòrag pulls back. She’ll get lines on her face if she keeps stressing so much, Brighid wants to tell her. “I knew I shouldn’t have allowed you to come with us.”

“Excuse me?” Brighid sits upright. There’s no pain or aches in her body, not like before. “Those archers could have done some serious damage had I not been there. You should know that as well as I do.”

“But—“

“Warfare is my muscle memory. Whoever I was before…” She closes her eyes for a moment. “Whatever I did, whoever I killed, hardly matters now.”

“I just don’t want to see you hurt.”

“Lady Mòrag,” Brighid grabs the sides of her face, her heart burning and yearning. “… Don’t say anything else.”

She’s crying, she realizes, as she pulls Mòrag down to kiss her. The bed slightly shifts as Mòrag slams a hand down in surprise to balance herself, her head trapped in place by Brighid’s firm grip, and she isn’t _doing_ anything but then she is, kissing back, allowing her lips to part and tongue to meet Brighid’s. They kiss as though there’s an unsaid time limit, quickly and frantically, breaths hot against one another as Brighid pulls Mòrag on top of her and gently bites her lower lip. Mòrag makes a small noise and touches Brighid’s hair with the hand that isn’t keep herself from falling flat on top of her.

Mòrag makes another noise when Brighid pushes her up to speak. Their faces are flushed.

“… Not being able to remember is _agony_ , each and every day,” Brighid says. “But… you are here, right in front of me. You’re _here_.”

As she speaks, Brighid pushes and kicks the covers aside, that cumbersome barrier between herself and Mòrag. “I’ve been absorbed in my past long enough. The present, and the future… I want to make new memories that I won’t forget. With you.”

Mòrag only nods in silence, understanding as she had always been. To grant herself such a vice, to succumb to this, would go against everything she had trained for to become Knight Commander.

But no longer does she care.

Brighid probably doesn’t care, either.

 

* * *

 

They kiss again, this time without that strange urgency, meandering as they remove each other’s clothes and feel as much of each other as they can. Brighid’s hands wander over the toned muscles of Mòrag’s back, fingers dancing over the curve of her spine to draw out little shivers and moving across her shoulders. _This_ , in contrast to the fire and blood, remains undisturbed by that screaming instinct to act without thinking.

The conversation will probably never be finished, but nor does it need to be. The way they hungrily touch each other is enough, and Mòrag doesn’t hold herself back this time as she moves her kisses lower, affectionately nuzzling Brighid’s neck and breasts and stomach, drinking her in. She holds Brighid’s hips in a loose grip, stroking her skin over and over again.

Brighid tangles her fingers through Mòrag’s hair, undoing it from its ties. She’d stopped crying by the time the last of her undergarments came off, and all that’s left is a deep warmth and exhilaration.

“Would you kiss me there again?” Brighid whispers, and she feels Mòrag nod and press her lips to her sternum. The ministrations nearly tickle, but then those hands that had been stroking her hips moves to her breasts and—

 _Oh_ , she gasps, toes curling as Mòrag massages each of her breasts. Her thumbs rub over her nipples and a gasp quickly becomes a moan, and she feels some throb of apprehension when Mòrag begins to move her attention lower. Lower, close and closer to her wetness.

“Is it ok?” Mòrag pauses to ask, already near her groin. Brighid’s skin tingles from all the light kisses Mòrag had been planting along her body. She nods without hesitation, still touching her hair.

“You’ve done this before, haven’t you…?”

She goes silent, face turning more red than it already was. “A few times. Before I took on my current title.”

Brighid smiles and feels her face, as if she means to memorize every inch of it through touch alone. She would have imagined the knowledge that Mòrag had done this to other women before would bother her, but it strangely doesn’t. “Maybe I’ve also had previous lovers.”

She could just about laugh at the way Mòrag’s eyes go wide. But instead, she just pushes at her head and spreads her legs a little further apart, that coiling heat in her gut nearly unbearable now. It doesn’t matter. Whatever was in the past doesn’t matter. Only their new intimacy does, and she strokes Mòrag’s hair encouragingly.

What a beautiful sight, the Knight Commander suckling and licking at her inner thighs, running her palms up and down her legs, _worshipping._

“I love you,” Mòrag blurts out, the words muffled against the dip where her thigh meets her groin. She squeezes her eyes shut and kisses her again, inhaling her warm scent. “I love you, Brighid, I—“

Her heart, still burning and yearning, is ablaze. Brighid looks down at Mòrag and softly smiles, and prays she would never forget this night.

“I love you, too.”

Her kisses move to the core of Brighid’s heat.

Brighid throws her head back and groans, clutching a fistful of Mòrag’s hair as she licks and kisses and licks and kisses, tongue teasing her entrance and tasting everything she has to offer. Her back arches off the bed (another groan, louder this time) at the same time Mòrag’s upper lip pushes against her clit.

“Lady Mòrag—“

Then all her attention is diverted to that sensitive point, and Mòrag’s hands begin to slide down her thighs, inward.

Brighid is no longer looking down but she can feel Mòrag’s eyes on her, closely watching every movement and every reaction as she licks and gently sucks at her clit. Nothing else particularly matters at the moment, not her lost memories or who she was or who she is, only that Mòrag is _here_ , touching her, against her, inside her— 

Just the tip of her finger, pushing against her entrance, slick from both arousal and the attention Mòrag had been giving. Brighid looks down, her chest heaving with heavy breaths, voice thick when she speaks. “Keep going.”

Mòrag wordlessly nods, her mouth still occupied.

It looks like they won’t be needing to finish that conversation, after all.

 

* * *

 

 

The days after that pass in surprisingly relative normalcy. Mòrag tells the emperor of her new… relationship, and he doesn’t seem to particularly care when he has more important matters to worry about. Or he just has that much faith in Mòrag not to allow it to get in the way of her work.

Brighid finds a new role with her magic supporting Mòrag in battle. It gives her things to keep her occupied, and she thinks less and less of the memories she had forgotten and who she had been before washing up on the beach. No longer will the past keep her completely chained. There are things to live for, in the present.

Now, she’s just… Brighid. Maybe she can even come to fully accept that she may never recover the life she had had before. But it’s unlikely. She knows it will forever haunt her, like a scar that won’t completely fade away.

But it’s fine, when they spend the nights in each other’s arms, when Mòrag whispers love into her ear and Brighid blindly maps out her body with her hands. The gods had truly been gracious when they guided Mòrag to find Brighid on that beach.

… Though she can’t even remember who those gods were, but it surely can’t be that important.

Days turn to weeks. The season changes, supposedly, though the weather does not. With Brighid’s powerful magic backing the might of the empire’s army, the revolution is crushed one limb at a time until, in a rather anti-climactic confrontation, the leader behind it all is captured. People begin to remember Brighid’s name and speak of her in the streets, of the mage who is always at the Knight Commander’s side.

To be remembered, and revered…

Might be good enough, if she’s unable to recover her past.

Of course, there’s no idealistic peace even after the revolution is quietly put to an end; there is still the issue of dwindling resources and Uraya getting antsy. She becomes as involved with the affairs of the country as Mòrag is, simply because this is who she is now, and Brighid couldn’t be more content with that in spite of the emptiness that even Mòrag’s love can’t fill.

But it’s good enough. It should be.

Nia finds her on one of the balconies overlooking the city, one evening. Brighid looks down at her, and Nia stares back, and she gives her a pat on the head as is their custom. Dromarch appears shortly after, slightly out of breath.

“Ah— there she is.” He picks up Nia and she goes limp in his hands in protest. “Enjoying the night air, Lady Brighid?”

“The afternoon heat still doesn’t agree with me,” she says.

“I know that feeling all too well,” he sighs. “Even after all these years, I can’t seem to fully acclimate.”

“You said you come from Gormott, didn’t you?” Brighid remembers now, their very first conversation. It feels so long ago. “How did you come to be a servant of the Ardainian royal family?”

Dromarch places Nia on his shoulder, where she immediately begins to knead at his suit with her claws. He stands beside Brighid and inhales deeply. The air is chilly at this hour. “I once served one of the noble houses that ruled the province. It isn’t a terribly interesting story. Conflict tore the council apart and the house I served was ruined. One thing led to another and— well, here I am, in Hardhaigh Palace. The emperor is a far more generous man than others may credit him for.”

“Do you ever reminisce over the life you had before?” Brighid asks, folding her arms over the railing. The city is nothing but dim lights and vague shapes below. Even from here, she can smell the smoke and steel. “Of the things you had lost…”

“No,” Dromarch readily says. He reaches up to pet Nia with the back of his fingers; she purrs and bumps the side of his face. “My old masters would be rolling in their graves if they knew of my current role, but death cannot be undone. There would be no point in grieving for them now, after all this time.”

It’s different, because Dromarch remembers.

“But supposing you had a chance to go back.”

“That would be unwise. Gormott will very likely be caught in the crossfire between Mor Ardain and Uraya.”

“Hmm.”

Nia meows. Dromarch extends an arm and she steps out on it like a tree branch, precariously balanced over the steep drop far, far down below. “Besides, my Lady here would be most cross if I left to return to Gormott.”

 

* * *

 

Being allowed an afternoon to breathe and do whatever they’d like together is a rare treat in itself. The markets are always bustling in spite of the political tensions and strangled trade, somehow, testament to the country’s hard resilience.

Brighid still doesn’t quite enjoy how the dust gets in her hair, but it’s nice being able to stroll with Mòrag and take a look at the wares.

“Is there anything in particular you’d like?” Mòrag asks, scanning the stalls as they slowly walk.

“Some new skin creams would be nice,” Brighid offhandedly says.

Mòrag looks to her from the corner of her eyes and smiles so slightly that no one else would notice. She can already feel the coins slipping between her fingers. But, if it’s for Brighid, money isn’t an issue.

“Of course. Some merchants from Argentum set up shop last week, I heard. We should seek them out.”

She takes Mòrag by the arm and lightly tugs, resisting the urge to pull her in for a kiss right there. “Let me buy you something, for a change.”

“There’s nothing else I need,” Mòrag frowns.

“Some new clothes, then.”

“My uniform and armor are not sufficient?”

“They take too long to get off.”

“Ah.”

Normalcy is such a nice thing to savor. She hooks her arm around Mòrag’s, nevermind the metal of her armor digging into her sleeve. People are looking in their direction, but that’s nothing out of the ordinary. She’s used to the stares by now, and she expects Mòrag is even more accustomed to it.

The stares hardly ever last long, given the constant flow of business in the market. But someone is…

Brighid feels it, that instinct she still isn’t quite sure of, telling her to be alert. The hairs on the back of her neck are standing. She pulls her arm away from Mòrag and reaches for the tome she keeps inside her cloak.

“Brighid? Is something the matter—“

“ _Brighid?_ ”

She whirls around.

“It’s… you. Oh, gods, it's really you. Brighid. I can’t believe it.”

Golden eyes. Brighid recognizes those golden eyes.

“You’re alive.”

This isn’t some starstruck civilian— or even an Ardainian for that matter, the light armor clearly foreign and shock of red hair not native. Mòrag is wary, one hand on the hilt of her sword, but the hairs on the back of Brighid’s neck are no longer standing and. Her head hurts. She stares at the stranger’s face, unable to put a name to it.

That look of confusion dampens the woman’s smile. She takes a step forward, now hesitant.

“It _is_ you, Brighid! I’m sure of it! Don’t you remember? It’s me—”

Her ears are ringing. Brighid takes a step back, and a sliver of steel glints at Mòrag’s side. “I’m sorry, I don’t…“

“We thought you to be dead!” The woman continues to speak. Her mouth is trembling. “After what had happened… no one had any hope you could have survived. But to think, you were here the entire time! The others will be overjoyed to see you again!”

“She doesn’t know you,” Mòrag sharply says, stepping in front of Brighid. “Explain yourself.”

All that relief and joy slips right off her features. The woman’s shoulders sag as she looks between Mòrag and Brighid, and her eyes settle on Brighid. Those golden eyes.

“My name is Lora. I come from Torna. Brighid, you truly don’t remember?”

 

* * *

 

Lora leads them back to Jacolo’s Inn, where she and her companions are staying. The air inside is slightly hazy and dim, and there are two other people waiting at a table in a corner close to the stairs. One of them immediately stands when she sees Brighid, a hand pressed to her mouth in shock, but the other one is unreadable beneath his mask. He remains in his seat, scrutinizing Mòrag.

“It feels strange to introduce you to them again,” Lora sadly smiles. She gestures to them. “These are Haze and Jin.”

“Lora…?” The one called Haze looks to her questioningly, head tilted.

“She lost her memories. I’m sorry— Brighid, Lady Mòrag, would you have a seat?”

Mòrag is still squinting back at Jin, but she sits when Brighid gently nudges her arm. Her head is still ringing, though not as violently as it was before. These are… those people she had always imagined to be out there, looking for her, wondering what had happened. People from the life she once lived in another land.

But they’re complete strangers.

“It’s been nearly two years since that day…” Lora exhales, leaning back in her seat.

She wants to know. She doesn’t want to know. She’d finally begun to come to terms with it all and now these _strangers_ come out of nowhere, telling her that they knew her and thought she was dead. Oh, Brighid remembers this feeling welling up in her chest.

Anger.

“Tell me everything,” Brighid says, her teeth clenched. “Who was I?”

Haze begins to speak up, but Lora gives her a meaning look. Jin crosses his arms and turns the other way, still silent and unreadable.

“Alright,” Lora sighs, and she rests her elbows on the table.

There was a war, when the Divine Dragons Malos and Mythra awakened. All but Indol had united to fight against that sheer force of destruction and hatred, Malos, but his power was overwhelming and centuries of undisturbed peace had left the other nations unprepared for battle.

Judicium had been the first to be destroyed in the war, when they were the first to retaliate. It was Brighid’s homeland. She survived by the skin of her teeth and joined up with the military of Torna, where she met Lora. Haze. Jin. The Divine Dragon herself, Mythra. So many others who she fought with and ate with and trained with and became _friends_ with. All of them forgotten by now, of course, and none of the names Lora speaks of carry any weight to Brighid.

Then, they were pushed back against the coasts by Indol’s forces and Malos. The fight had been gruesome, Lora says with her eyes cast downward, knuckles white on the table. They lost far too many people— and Brighid had supposedly been one of them, struck by dark magic and thrown over a steep cliff into the churning sea below.

“The rest of us narrowly managed to escape,” Lora softly says. “We were forced to go into hiding…”

“And Malos took that opportunity to wreak havoc on Torna,” Jin speaks up, his voice hoarse.

“Yes. Torna suffered the same fate as Judicium had.”

“So you fled to seek asylum here, in Alrest?” Mòrag crosses her arms.

“No. We came here to seek the third Divine Dragon, said to be asleep somewhere deep beneath the earth,” Lora says. “Our homeland is in ruins. Indol continues to spread their influence with that evil god they worship. We’re running out of options.”

“There are no gods in Alrest,” Mòrag bluntly says.

Jin scoffs. Lora touches his arm. “Even if the legend is merely a legend, it’s a journey we felt we must take. And we found Brighid alive and well, did we not?”

Brighid says nothing. She glances at Mòrag. Her brow is furrowed and and a muscle in her neck is twitching. Mòrag is far from the type to turn away those in need, especially those who had come straight out of a warzone, but… Mor Ardain has its own war to think about.

Besides, these are people who claim to have been Brighid’s friends.

“Haze, Jin and I are the only ones who crossed the sea to Alrest,” Lora says. “The others have found refuge in Leftheria for the time being. Perhaps, if Mythra is able to recover her full strength we may have a chance, but…”

“This is not our war,” Mòrag says, her voice flat. “And Mor Ardain cannot spare any resources or manpower to lend to your cause. I’m sorry.”

“We wouldn’t ask for such things,” Haze says. “We’ve been here long enough to hear talk of your conflict with Uraya. That’s understandable.”

“ _War_ is understandable?” Jin mutters.

“Jin, please.”

Lora lays a hand flat on the table. She’s tired. Brighid can see the shadows beneath her eyes and the wear in her armor.

“But, Brighid… would you come back with us?”

Her heart seems to freeze into ice. She… once knew these people. They know who _Brighid_ had been, before she became the Brighid she is now. If there was any chance of learning who she was and is, this is that golden opportunity she had hoped for so many weeks ago.

But Mòrag is sitting right beside her.

“… I need time to think it over,” Brighid quietly says.

“I understand,” Lora quickly says before Haze or Jin can voice their opinions. “There’s no need to rush. We’ll be staying here for the time being, whenever you’re ready to tell us your decision.”

Brighid pushes her chair back and stands, unable to look any of them in the eye. “Lady Mòrag, let’s go.”

“—Yes.”

She briskly walks out of the inn, Mòrag practically jogging to keep up with her. The sun suddenly seems far too hot. Hotter than it had been before. There’s too many people around too, and it’s suddenly getting difficult to breathe and her chest _hurts_ —

Mòrag’s hand slips into her own, and the world is stabilized again. She takes the lead now, and takes them both to that barren park where Brighid had once asked Mòrag why she chose to help her.

One of the flowerboxes is actually beginning to show signs of greenery. It’s quieter out here. Good. She can think. Mòrag, still leading her by the hand, brings them to a bench to sit.

They sit in silence like that, hand in hand, and Brighid wishes she could simply will this moment to last forever.

But Mòrag is the first to speak. “Will you go?”

“Certainly not!” Brighid quickly says, though her voice wavers.

“They weren’t lying about any of it,” Mòrag says. She squeezes Brighid’s hand. “There is a war raging across the sea. And you fought in that war, alongside them.”

“Does it mean anything when I don’t remember?”

“I can’t answer that for you, Brighid.”

“I… want to remember,” she admits, and her voice cracks again. “To think I was foolish enough to believe I’d put everything behind me. But I _need_ to know who I was, and who I am now. Those answers I’ve been looking for will be with them.”

Mòrag’s face is carefully neutral, but Brighid knows what it conceals.

“You know I won’t stop you.”

A dry breeze blows through the park, stirring dust in circles at their feet. Brighid inhales the smells of smoke and steel and dust, and wishes she’d chosen to stay inside with Mòrag today, in bed, securely wrapped in each other’s arms beneath the covers.

“… Can we sit here for a while longer?”

“Of course, Brighid.”

 

* * *

 

The sky is beginning to turn orange when they return to the inn. Lora, Haze, and Jin are no longer sitting at the table, but the innkeeper tells them which room they’re staying in. Every step they take up the stairs feels as heavy as steel, and Brighid wonders if she really had loved anyone else before Mòrag.

That’s an answer she could do without, frankly.

“Do you want to speak to them alone?” Mòrag asks. Brighid nods, and Mòrag retreats to wait by the stairs.

She knocks once on the door. There’s no answer. She knocks again.

It opens. Jin stares blankly at her. He’s still wearing that mask.

“… Where’s Lora?”

“Out,” he says. “With Haze. They’re getting food.”

“Ah. Should I come by later, then?”

“You can wait here. It shouldn’t be long.”

Without waiting for an answer, he turns and walks back into the room. Unsure, Brighid follows, leaving the door slightly ajar behind her. There’s a ridiculously long sword leaning against the opposite wall by the window, as well as some sort of staff, and a neatly folded pile of clothes had been left at the end of one of the two beds.

“I sleep on the floor,” Jin says without prompting, noticing Brighid looking around the room. “Lora and Haze always get the beds.”

“I see.”

Jin only grunts in response and goes to stand by the window, looking out. There really isn’t much of a view. The inn faces another building opposite the street.

Unsure what to do, Brighid takes the chair at the small unused desk.

“Have you come to a decision?” he asks, still looking out the window.

“I think I have.”

“You think.”

“I’d rather speak to Lora about this, if I must be honest.”

Jin is _cold_. He’s cold in a different way that Mòrag is cold whens she’s putting on appearances, but it must mean something if he’s the type of person to willingly sleep on musty hardwood to give his companions the comforts of actual beds. Maybe he was a friend, too.

“… You haven’t changed at all.” He’s still looking out the window. “You’re still the Brighid I knew.”

“We’ve hardly even spoken.”

“I can see it, in the way you carry yourself.”

Brighid stares down at her hands. It never really occurred to her to consider how all those people would feel about her amnesia. They’d remember her, but she wouldn’t remember them… ahh. But it’s still an odd comfort, to hear that she’s supposedly the same.

She is, so she was, so…

Jin is looking back at her. He’d taken off his mask, holding it delicately between his thumb and middle finger.

“Does clinging to things like that make you happy?”

“Excuse me?”

“If it makes you happy, reconsider your decision.” He turns back to the window, still holding his mask. “… It’s what Lora would say.”

She can envision the fire and blood so clearly in her mind now, as natural a thing as the winds that blow through the wastes. The words are ready on the tip of her tongue to ignite, and the flashes of battles long past persist in the back of her eyes. Now she sees it— the frothing sea ready to catch her, her tome slipping from her grasp, and the pain of dark magic pulsing throughout her body, but it’s not a memory. It’s merely an image painted by words.

The door creaks open.

“Oh! Brighid!” Lora’s eyes light up. Haze is just behind her, carrying covered plates. “We weren’t expecting you.”

“You didn’t see Lady Mòrag waiting outside?”

“No, we didn’t… well, maybe she’d gone to get some food as well. So, have you come to tell us what you’ve decided on?”

Brighid nods and stands up. She goes over to help Haze put the plates down.

 

* * *

 

The empire always comes first, no matter what.

She _swore_ to dedicate her life and purpose to her country when she became Knight Commander— no, when her uncle took her in, when she was just a child crying for her parents. Mòrag understands her responsibilities. She understands she can’t let anything get in the way of the things she must do.

After some time, she leaves the inn and heads down the street just to walk and clear her head.

Brighid is an adult with her own purpose, too. They just… happened to become entwined in one another, daring to put aside pieces of themselves for each other. And who would Mòrag be, if she selfishly admitted she wanted her to stay?

Mor Ardain. Judicium. They all need to fight their own wars.

People can’t always have what they want.

It’s dark by the time Mòrag returns to the inn. She isn’t sure why. Brighid may have already returned to the palace by now. Or maybe Mòrag just wanted to speak to Lora herself to tell her… what? She isn’t sure. Talking doesn’t seem to be helpful all the time.

She enters the inn, and to her surprise, sees Brighid dozing off at one of the tables. Mòrag walks over and gently shakes her.

“Brighid?”

“Oh— Lady Mòrag,” Brighid stifles a yawn. “There you are.”

“I’m sorry, for leaving without notice.”

“It’s alright. Let’s return to the palace.”

“What about your… compatriots?”

“They’re Tornan. I’m Judician.” Brighid pauses, and chuckles. “Nevermind that. We did fight under the same banner, so I suppose the pedantries are unimportant. I’ve finished speaking to them.”

The walk back is unbearably long. Mòrag thinks of that vague irony, of how Brighid had assisted Mor Ardain with crushing its rebellion while Brighid had fought in a sort of rebellion of her own. War… never makes sense. Even some on the council seem to think so. They can hardly feed their population much less strengthen their military, so seizing Gormott for their resources–

“Lady Mòrag.”

They’re already at the bridge that crosses to the palace gates. The guards stationed at the sides are as still as statues.

She needs to tell her now. Her heart is pounding.

“Brighid, wait.”

“Yes?”

“Before you tell me your decision, I need to tell you mine.”

All her normal composure as Knight Commander is lost. She fumbles in her pockets and pulls out a small box, and opens it to show the jewel within.

Brighid sharply inhales. “What are you—“

“You don’t deserve to be caught in either of our wars,” Mòrag breathes out. “But no matter which you decide to fight for… I’ll stay with you. We go together.”

Tears are welling in her eyes at the realization. Mòrag knows. She knew. She knew which choice Brighid would take, and she had prepared accordingly. Yet she doesn’t deserve this, for all the selfishness she had displayed…

“You’d… put your duties to Mor Ardain aside…”

“It will be _fine_ ,” she says, pressing the jewel to Brighid’s palm. It’s beautiful, carved into the shape of a single flame, shining blue even in the dim moonlight. Mòrag must have found those Argentum merchants when she left the inn. “We can negotiate a treaty with Queen Raqura and with the Gormotti council. If there truly is a war waged between Divine Dragons across the sea, there are bigger things to consider. I’ll have Dromarch help with diplomatics.”

“You make it sound so easy,” Brighid laughs through her tears.

“It won’t be.”

“But you’d still risk it?”

“Without hesitation.”

“For me.”

“For you, Brighid.”

Mòrag steps closer to press her forehead against Brighid’s, breathing in her scent, the jewel still held between their palms. “I swore an oath to you, so many moons ago…”

“To help me recover my memories. Yes, I remember.”

They embrace each other, all those fears swept aside to be replaced by new worries, but they would face them together.

“To tell the truth, I am a little curious about this third Divine Dragon, too,” Mòrag weakly says, as Brighid nuzzles her cheek. Brighid simply laughs and kisses her fully on the mouth.

 

* * *

 

“So you’ll really be joining us? That’s brilliant! It’s an honor to have a soldier of your rank with us, Lady Mòrag.” Lora beams, clasping one of Mòrag’s hands in her own. “The emperor had no objections?”

“He had his reservations, but his son made a fine argument in my favor,” she says with a crooked smile. “So I will indeed be accompanying you, as a representative of Mor Ardain.”

“We’ll be heading south to Tantal from here,” Jin says, apparently indifferent to the conversation that had just transpired. If he’s glad Brighid and Mòrag would be joining them, he gives no indication. Haze, on the other hand, is just about as ecstatic as Lora is. “You had better have packed warm clothes. There will be no turning back, once we’ve gone that far.”

The morning sun is bright but not oppressive, shining over the city gates where they met up. Brighid is wearing that circlet of silver and crystal that had been on her person when Mòrag first found her; it has no real significance, as Lora had revealed. It was simply a piece of Judician jewelry.

They’ll be traveling on foot; the horses wouldn’t last long in the harsh southern winter. A truly long journey lies ahead of them. Brighid feels the apprehension in her chest, but she also feels Mòrag’s hand close to her side, and it’s almost as if everything would turn out okay.

They’ll find the third Divine Dragon. She’ll find herself. The world will not fall asunder.

“Lady Mòrag! Lady Brighid!” A voice calls out. It’s Dromarch, trotting over with Nia clinging to his shoulder.

He comes to a stop to face them, breathing hard. He closes his eyes for a moment then bows. “I wish you both a safe journey. Rest assured that the palace will be in good hands. I may be old, but I’ve still got plenty of fight in these fists.”

“Thank you, Dromarch,” Mòrag softly smiles.

“Will you be going back to your home then, Lady Brighid?”

Home was… that land called Judicium that she has no memory of, now nothing more than dust left in the wake of the rampage of the Divine Dragon Malos. There is no home waiting for her. Her fingers brush against Mòrag’s, and she knows now. She’ll remember this for the rest of her life, Mòrag by her side. The past had always been a muddled void of nothing, but the future is clear.

“I will always be home.”

Dromarch nods and Nia makes some sort of chirping noise. “Well said.”

“We should be setting off now, then,” Lora pipes up. “If we want to reach the next town before sunset.”

“Farewell!” Dromarch calls one last time, holding Nia up in the air as their group leaves Alba Cavanich.

The winds are calm today. Haze and Lora quietly talk together at the front, while Jin keeps close to them. Soon, the capital is just a looming shape behind them, the smell of smoke and steel faded.

“You know,” Brighid says to Mòrag. “I didn’t want to leave, before you told me of your decision.”

Mòrag almost seems taken aback. “Really?”

“The idea of being without you… was unpleasant to think about. I wanted to be selfish,” she lightly laughs. “A part of me knew I had to go with Lora, while the other part only wanted to be with you. Thank you for helping me settle on a choice.”

“It’s as I said,” Mòrag says, her eyes warm. “I intend to keep my promise to you. We go together, Brighid.”

Maybe someday, she would find her memories and discover who she truly was before, but it would change nothing. Of that, Brighid is sure of. Mòrag would always be here in the present and they would always simply be. She squints up at the sun and feels Mòrag reaching for her hand, and gladly interlocks her fingers with hers.

And that’s more than good enough.

**Author's Note:**

> art!!: 
> 
> https://twitter.com/AAsplats/status/1028518071013502976


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